


Four Times Arthur Blushed and One Time Eames Did

by TheMostePotente



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Absinthe, Adult Content, Explicit Language, M/M, Minor Violence, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/pseuds/TheMostePotente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blush-worthy tales told in five vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Arthur Blushed and One Time Eames Did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aredblush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aredblush/gifts).



> Originally written for ARedBlush for the 2011 Eames/Arthur exchange.

****

**

Four Times Arthur Blushed and One Time Eames Did

**

****

::::

**Time the First (The Moscow Job)**

Moscow is colder than any place has a right to be.

It's so cold that Arthur swears he's in the hinterlands of Scandinavia and not a hub of Eastern Europe, so when the warm air rushes at him from inside the abandoned factory near Paveletskaya, he feels almost woozy. 

It's February, and this is their first job of the new year. It's taken Arthur nearly two weeks to collect the necessary data on Dmitry Nikolaevich Alexandrov and his son. But then Arthur insists the time constraint has more to do with his perfectionism as a point man than the fact that an ex-KGB agent run underground since the last Cold War is not so easily dossier-ed. 

It's ass o'clock in the morning and much too late for this type of extraction. And of all things, a chess stratagem to outplay the current Russian champion.

In retrospect, Arthur finds the idea extravagant, but he's paid to point and not to pass judgment.

He just wishes it wasn't so fucking cold. Or late. 

The job has been set in motion by the move of a pawn. Ariadne's architecture is flawless, down to the hollowed-out bishop she's left as a calling card to Eames. The tables are rightly scratched. The floors sufficiently scuffed. Even the noises the fluorescent lighting makes and the sky-blue of the walls are precise. She's become an invaluable part of the team, and Arthur smiles in recognition.

Cobb and Eames are already there, Cobb standing nearby and Eames brilliantly forged as Alexandrov's son, Grigory. There is nothing the old man wouldn't do for the kid, either. Dmitry's already taken two bullets, so coveted chess advice shouldn't be too difficult to obtain. Father and son have been known to wager a gentlemanly one-ruble bet on occasion. Problem being, Eames plays a bit queen-heavy. Not exactly routine. 

Still, before an eyebrow or a question can be raised by Alexandrov, Arthur pulls his Sig Sauer and pushes the barrel up against the back of Eames's head. It's time to get things moving. The clock is ticking. 

In the rudest Russian Cobb can muster, he orders, "The fucking chess stratagem." A click, then, as Arthur flicks the safety to red, his finger hot on the trigger. "Or your son dies."

Eames, that smug bastard, actually smiles. 

It's literally a split second between the answer and the door being kicked in. Arthur takes a bullet to the shoulder. The last thing he hears before darkness falls around him is the firing of his Sig's twin. He's the first to wake up in the hotel room.

* * *

It's still ass o'clock in the morning. Arthur's standing next to Eames in Gorky Park sharing his last cigarette. Were this a visit and not a job, Arthur thinks he might skate the frozen footpaths. They have what they came for, though, and now it's time to leave.

When Eames passes him back the cigarette, he speaks. "Alexandrov had a beautiful death. A beautiful, red death."

Arthur laughs. Eames's idea of a beautiful death is crimson-stained and riddled with holes. Like the victim was interred beneath a field of spider lilies. "I just want to live to see my next birthday. Or our next job. Or whichever comes first." 

The butt is flicked out into the snow. "Oh, you will, darling, you will," Eames grins. "I am thy sworn protector. Let the moon bear witness." 

Theatrical fuck. What's with the English and Shakespearean melodrama? Arthur looks up into the night sky. Only Eames could make a promise to something as inconstant as the moon.

The wind picks up, ruffling Arthur's hair. The cold is damning, he thinks, but it buffers the heat burning his windburnt cheeks.

Christ if he isn't blushing.

**Time the Second (The Concord Job)**

The next job falls a week after Arthur's birthday. Feeling older, it seems ironic that he should have to point a job involving a high school student. Eames insists on what Cobb refers to as a dress rehearsal. It's just a bullshit excuse to laze about in Ariadne's latest construct. That, Arthur notes, or Eames has a weird attachment to boarding schools.

Either way, it pisses Arthur off. His memories of high school are less than pleasant.

Ariadne performs nothing short of a miracle again. The St. Paul's School has been catalogued brick by brick. Arthur ventures she's even considered how soft and green the blades of grass are. These details should cushion the harshness of this job, but they don't. Arthur doesn't envy Cobb having to incept a seventeen-year-old boy who is MIT-bound. 

As ridiculous as it sounds, their target, Julian Wentworth, has been prophesised as being the next technological messiah. He's to be told to pursue other avenues of study out of fear for events that may never happen. It occurs to Arthur that this sounds as though it could be a movie plot like Skynet and an uprising of machines or some other dystopic future. It just doesn't seem real, but that's par for the course when your main haunt's a dreamscape.

Arthur always finds that being in the job environment helps him prep Eames for his role. There is a lot of ground to cover, not of which the least includes a refresher course in higher maths. It's been so long for the both of them that Arthur suspects they've both forgotten the likes of Fermat and his Last Theorem.

The room that Eames will be sharing with Wentworth as his dormmate is larger than the average hotel room. It's meticulously clean, and Ariadne's even stocked a refrigerator for them. Arthur sheds his trousers and loosens the tie at his neck with a great sigh. He grabs an Evian from the fridge and tosses Eames a Capri-Sun, padding over to the bed in socked feet. Eames is watching him with this come-hither look Arthur is certain he picked up in a movie that predates the nineties. He's trouser-less as well, wearing his school jacket without a button-down underneath. His tie drapes loosely about his neck like a hangman's noose ready for a garrotting. It's striking in ways Arthur never wants to acknowledge.

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed.

"All right, so, infinitesimal calculus," Arthur says, a bit of a frog in his throat. He clears it by drinking half the bottle of Evian.

"Right," Eames says, jabbing the straw into the drink-hole a little viciously. "You're too far away. My hearing's not what it used to be."

Before Arthur can even scoot to appease Eames, Arthur's dragged closer so that he's flush with him. Eames curls an arm around Arthur's shoulder and draws him tighter. The way Eames is sprawled, Arthur's other ass cheek hangs off the bed.

Arthur starts his monologue, and Eames cuts him off. "I learn better by showing and not telling." Boldly, he picks up Arthur's hand and directs it to his chest. "Muscle memory, or something like it. Write your proofs. I'll remember them this way."

Arthur just gives Eames a look and shotguns the rest of his Evian. He'll have to piss shortly, but he's damn thankful that the rush of cold water down his throat is enough to dampen the fire in his belly.

"You're fucking joking, Eames," Arthur says around a swallow. Oddly enough, he doesn't remove his hand. "This is how you understand maths? This and what else?" The question is rhetorical.

Eames takes a drink from his juice pouch and pushes the straw back down with his bottom lip. "I understand I'd like to put my one in your three, darling."

The fire in Arthur's belly begins to boil the water sloshing there, and his cheeks heat fiercely. 

Fuck Eames and his smile. Fuck Eames and his juice pouch. Fuck Eames and his interpretation of numbers.

Arthur wills the water to press down on his bladder a lot sooner than later. 

**Time the Third (The Victorian Job)**

Being under the influence of Somnacin _and_ a sedative is unsettling to Arthur. Their next assignment, though, is a multi-level dream state and Yusuf insists there's absolutely no way around it. In all Arthur's years as a point man, this is by far the strangest information dump Arthur's had to inhale. And in less than a week's time. He reasons he's going to need some time in between this job and the next to recover; the nature of the job alone is going to take a lot out of him.

Eames is reading _The Difference Engine_ like it's a fucking life manual. He sets it down without marking his place. "Sometimes, it's easier to dirty your hands than it is to wash them, darling," Eames tells him. They're sitting in a dimly lit corner in a place called _The Cock and Swallow_ in Whitechapel. 

Arthur says it over and over in his mind. _The Cock and Swallow in Whitechapel._ Apparently, it's not only possible to recreate a dreamscape but relive a time period. He's dressed over-elegantly in a frock and waistcoat with spats over spit-polished shoes. And Eames? Eames looks like a fucking aeronaut with his goggles and captain's hat.

"What, love?" Eames asks with a glance over his shoulder.

Arthur can't help staring at the anachronistic trifles Ariadne has included in this construct. Someone is looking at Ripper propaganda on a computer plugged into the aether. Arthur shakes his head and has a sip of whatever swill Eames has ordered for him, then speaks. "Morally speaking, I'm fine with this. We're helping return a son to his mother and father."

Two difficult jobs in a row, and Arthur's feeling a bit out of sorts. This sort of assignment in never easy. Cobb's having to incept a fifteen-year-old boy who came out of a car accident through a coma. To tell him to come home and go back to his parents, when there may be other, more divine plans for him. This is how they’ll reach the boy, coaxing him out through a fantasy realm. It fucking breaks Arthur's heart.

Eames just smiles. There's a little more tooth to it than Arthur cares for. That, and, well, Eames's smile has always been Arthur's rope. When Eames leans in, purportedly to offer Arthur some advice, it only serves to tighten the rope further. 

"I could use a fag. Be a love and dig around in your pockets for me?" Eames pouts. 

With a disturbing scrape of chair legs, Arthur stands and rummages about in his trouser pockets. There's an antiquated fob watch that he sets down on the table first. Then, he turns up an odd-looking brass key, glowing softly. There's a note attached that reads _Turn Me._ Placing the key flat in his palm, it spins like a compass needle in the direction of north. Arthur simply shrugs until Eames points out a flight of stairs behind them. "I wonder where they go?" 

"Why, up, of course." He throws Arthur a saucy wink and then stands, smoothing his coat over an arm. 

There's a furtive glance and a snap of brass casing as Arthur checks the time. They have about an hour until Cobb signals for them. Arthur will indulge Eames his curiosity.

There's a row of doors on the second floor, all with glowing keyholes. Arthur tries them all before he finds the lock the key fits. Inside, there is nothing in the room besides a table and chairs. On the table sits a bottle of absinthe and two glasses. Eames is the first to examine the bottle. There is a note attached that reads _Drink Me._ Ariadne's obviously read Lewis Carroll a handful of times. 

A fairy swims inside the bottle. She taps at the glass, pointing up at the stopper. Eames uncorks the stopper and the compulsion to sit down and drink urges them both. Eames pours. Arthur has a tentative sip, and Eames watches him as if he's been designated the royal taster. He gulps the rest down and Eames follows suit. There's an odd buzzing in his ear that dims with the lilt of a singsong voice.

Let's play at a game, you and I!  
Best me not, then free I shall fly!  
But if you can guess  
And answer my test  
The wings of the Fée shall you ride!

Gorged at the feast and full to the throat  
You still want to eat me.

Dark is the night with no moon afloat  
Yet still you can see me.

You stumble and fall on a cushion of silk  
You will suffer from me.

Beggars and paupers and those of their ilk  
They always will have me.

What am I?

Arthur knows the answer, but he remains tight-lipped and smiling. He's going to kill Ariadne. Preferably with an icicle so that the murder weapon can't be found. He defers to Eames.

"Nothing," Eames answers, flicking the fairy away. She sulks in a corner, defeated. "The answer is nothing. Which is what every man starts with until he learns to _ask_."

Arthur shoots Eames a pointed look. Best to let the moment pass with another drink. "Just fill me up, Mr. Eames." 

"Ah, now that's a loaded statement, love. Can you be more specific?"

A warmth suffuses the back of Arthur's neck. Ironic, the stupid fucking fairy has the right of it.

**Time the Fourth (The In Between Job)**

Shopping on Savile Row is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, and that's where the day finds Arthur. Norton & Sons at No 16. There are other, more expensive bespoke tailors, but ever since Eames turned him on to this place five years ago, he's been patently loyal.

Arthur's already been through his fitting, so he's reading the paper now and waiting for Eames. Fittings like these can take a while, and the idling is a welcome respite. Eames is fidgety today, all dramatic sighs and nervous movements. Like he expects Simon to just pull a well-fitted suit out of his ass, or perform some other miraculous feat that doesn't include a measuring tape and the saintliest of patience. Arthur rather enjoys his own fittings. He knows that if no one else will touch him, at least his tailor will get intimate with his inseam. And if that isn't enough to titillate, Arthur knows he'll have a beautiful suit to cycle into his wardrobe. 

Eames runs a hand through his hair and smiles at Arthur in the three-way. For reasons he can't explain, Arthur's agreed to accompany Eames to the tattoo parlour after. By his standards, Arthur feels his fear of needles is irrational, dating back to a tetanus shot he received when he was twelve. Nowadays, he has to close his eyes and count backwards from ten. Suffice it to say, Eames will be alone in furthering his inking fetish. 

They take the Underground to Barbican. Eames prattles on about his newest three-piece, and Arthur adds a nod here and there over the top of his pager to a mostly one-sided conversation. Into You Tattoo is a little trendier than Arthur cares for, despite his inking nonchalance, but practically every one of Eames's designs has been from here. They take him right away like he's a fucking VIP, and Arthur follows him just for the consultation.

"What should I get, darling?" Eames asks, removing his shirt. His torso, Arthur notes, is looking slightly more defined.

Craving a cigarette, Arthur pops a piece of gum. He offers the pack to both the tattooist and Eames. They decline. "You mean you don't know?"

"I prefer my tattoos spur of the moment. That way if something last minute inspires me, I haven’t committed to anything."

Arthur pushes the wad of gum to the side of his mouth to speak. "It should be personal. And unique. Beyond that, you're on your own."

Eames lies on his back, yowling at the coldness. The tattooist checks his gun, and just the sound is enough to churn Arthur's insides. He steps into the waiting room and gets as comfortable as one can on a fake leather couch. He picks up the nearest magazine and busies himself with a copy of Uncut. 

Despite having what seems to be a Starbucks on every corner, London is still the worst place to get coffee. Between a post-job malaise and the bee-like drone of four tattoo guns buzzing, Arthur can't keep his eyes open. The words on the pages blur together, and before he knows it, he's fast asleep in the shop's waiting room. He doesn't dream. Just falls into a black void, pinpricked with tiny lights like a starfield, before a rough hand shakes him awake. Sitting up with a groan, Arthur clears the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

"Eames left about an hour ago," the tattooist says. "Told me not to wake you. Said you needed your rest."

From across the room, Arthur can see his reflection in the mirror. His hair's a tumbledown mess. He can only imagine how rumpled his suit's become. "That rotten prick was supposed to buy me dinner tonight."

The tattooist just laughs. "He told me you'd say that. He also said you'd pay for his ink." 

"Of course he did," Arthur says, a groan to match the creak of leather. He doesn't ask how much. He estimates the time and the hourly fee and pays accordingly, tipping the tattooist extra for having to put up with Eames, the sonofabitch.

The tattooist offers him an orange San Pellegrino. Arthur declines with a wave. "So, what did the asshole get?"

"Just a skull. A poker chip in the left eye socket, and a red die in the right eye socket. Mean anything to you?"

Arthur lies. "Not a damn thing." In Pinocchio-like fashion, Arthur's body reacts in kind, skin heating. 

The worst part? Eames has this effect on him in absentia.

**A First Time for All Things (Home, Sweet, Home)**

It's a good night for staying in, Arthur thinks. Outside, it's raining buckets, and this makes hailing a cab in the city a complete bitch.

Instead, Arthur decides to queue up his Netflix. And apparently, wait on fucking Eames to bring dinner. Like eating from cartons is supposed to make up for the time before in London. 

Arthur's stomach growls, and he contemplates a bag of microwave popcorn in the interim. As if on cue, his buzzer sounds and Arthur lets Eames inside. Eames is bearing Indian takeaway and not Thai like they'd agreed upon, and he's dripping from head to toe on Arthur's newly waxed floors. Smiling like the last-minute bastard that he is, Eames shoves the bags at Arthur and takes off his coat. The masala, at least, smells delicious. 

"Christ, you're two hours late," Arthur teases. "If you were a pizza, you'd be free."

Eames grins and runs a hand though his rain-washed hair. "Not true, darling. I come with no guarantees."

Without being prompted, Arthur goes into his bedroom and comes back out with a change of clothes for Eames. Arthur tosses him an oversized t-shirt and a baggy pair of running shorts. Eames looks positively scandalised at the wardrobe choices, and this suits Arthur just fine. If he doesn't sit down and eat something, though, Arthur's liable to shove Eames back out into the rain wearing workout geekery and sock suspenders.

Wine is definitely in order. 

Eames changes in the bathroom while Arthur dishes out the vindaloo and naan. They eat in relative silence until Arthur speaks up. "Why'd you do it, Eames?" he asks.

"You're quite capable of navigating the Underground back to the hotel by yourself," Eames says between mouthfuls.

There's a clatter of silverware striking china when Arthur sets his plate down on the coffee table. Eames should recognise this as frustration, and he must, because his smile finally reaches his eyes.

"The tattoo, you mean?" Eames asks, making full use of the paper napkins. "The chip and the die together? Because we're a pair, you and I. We work in tandem. We see and do things the others can't."

Arthur refills both their wineglasses. "Were you ever going to show it to me?"

"Of course," Eames says, pulling up a sleeve. The scabbing is relatively gone. The artistry is top-drawer. It complements Eames's other tattoos beautifully.

Arthur smiles. "I'm full."

"Not too full, I hope." Eames grabs the remote from off the coffee table and flips to a cable music channel. He offers his hand. "Dance with me, love."

Before Arthur can even answer, Eames pulls him from the couch and presses their bodies flush while he arranges his hands. He sweeps Arthur the length of the room and back again before he dips him. Arthur yelps in surprise.

When Eames pulls him upright again, Arthur crashes their mouths together. He doesn't allow Eames to come up for air until Arthur says so. This is his loft, therefore, these are his terms. When they do part, Eames's lips are wet and swollen. The knot in Arthur's stomach finally loosens. 

"You've wanted to do that a long time, I see," Eames grins.

Arthur powers off the cable. "Maybe I just wanted you out of those stupid clothes, and I'm tired of waiting."

"Say no more." For the second time this evening, Eames offers a hand.

Arthur takes it, hoping the cleaning service has been by while he's been away.

* * *

Eames is still asleep when Arthur preps for his morning jog. After a limbering stretch, Arthur arranges his fridge magnets in a good morning message to Eames.

__

'Being around you sucks. Except for the parts that don't suck.'

When Arthur returns home, Eames is gone. There are toast crumbs everywhere, dirty plates in Arthur's sink and a new message waiting for him.

__

'Flattery will get you everywhere. Now I'm blushing, darling. Happy?'

Absolutely, Arthur thinks with a satisfied expression. He scrambles the letters again.

-+- The End -+-


End file.
